Be My Hero
by Project Y
Summary: New Orleans, 1990: the people who you don't want to see always seem to be the people who show up at your door, but Alfred's never been one to turn away guests. USSR/USA, historical.


**New Orleans, 1990**

Alfred looked up from the bowl of rather lacklustre spaghetti he was eating, looking at the kitchen door. It was New Orleans, and he was staying in an old shotgun home he had bought a long time ago—dating from the early 1910s, at least. There seemed to be a shadow outside of it, but he couldn't tell who it was. Maybe it was one of his neighbours, nice folk who he always got along with on this particular cheery street. He stood up and easily opened it, remembering how small the whole home was compared to the usual, in Seattle or even Chicago.

A heavy gust blew from the door into the warm, quiet kitchen, and the American stared at the intruder outside of his home. The long grey (or was it tan?) coat with the worn, star-shaped badge, the beige scarf covering his pale neck, and the rough, perpetually-frostbitten-porcelain skin was all too real. "What are you... what are you doing here?" he finally managed, trying to ignore the piercing violet eyes that were staring right at him.

"I... I didn't think you'd be in, uh, New Orleans tonight. Or ever." He narrowed his bright blue eyes suddenly. "What are you doing here, anyway?" The stranger tilted his head towards America, his near-white hair acting as a curtain to his eyes. He cleared his throat and said, "It would not be wise for me to state my reasons in the open." One could clearly hear the marked and heavy Russian accent in his words.

"Well, come in then," America said impatiently, "don't keep me waiting. I haven't got all night." Upon hearing the words _all night_, the Russian's slightly chapped lips twitched. "What are you smiling about?" he asked irritably, turning back to the table and dumping the nearly-empty plate of spaghetti into the tiny kitchen sink. "Stop doing that."

Russia's eyes widened in amusement as he watched America hastily shift some items around on the kitchen table and counters—wait, make that singular, since the kitchen was the size of his linen closet—before remarking, "Nice place," as he sank into a rickety chair by the table. He dug his gloved hand into his coat pocket, pulling out a bottle labelled "Родник" and popping the lid with his teeth.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted anything to drink," said the American as he opened what the other had thought was a rather small washing machine underneath the counter and pulled out a can of cheap beer. "I don't think that's really necessary, since you can finish of a bottle all on your own, can't you?" Russia looked at the other, smirking. "I think you know me well enough to make me a decision on your own, дa?"

He took another swig from the bottle as America scowled and flopped down onto another chair that looked as though it was equally uncomfortable. Facing him, he growled, "Suit yourself, commie," and popped open the tab of the beer can. "Why don't we toast to our futures?" suggested the Russian as he looked pointedly at America.

"You know, just as well as I do, that this must end soon. Nothing lasts forever, Америка, not even you. Or me. Or, hmm, us." He tapped his bottle against America's can, peering at its label. "You do not have very good tastes, Америка. Perhaps that is just one of your flaws." The blonde in question scowled at the last remark, and retorted, "The hero is never cheap! It's always the villains that are, because that's how the heroes beat them in the end!"

Russia smiled, resting his chin on one hand, as he watched the Western nation go off into a rant about heroes. "This is the one thing I have always found amusing about you, Америка," he smiled eerily. "You have always been a supernova, burning brightly, never thinking about dimming your shine. But what am I, then, Америка? I am the black hole to your supernova, in your mind, would I not be? For I suck up all of the light and the life, is that not correct?"

America glared at the person—nation—sitting across from him. "Since when have you become poetic, Russia?" he asked snidely, taking a delicate sip of the beer. Russia did not answer right away; he continued staring at the latter, and finally asked, "Have you ever questioned our relationship?" America froze upon hearing the Russian's words.

"What do you mean, _our relationship_?" he asked, hoping that the slight quiver in his voice would just leave him alone already. "We don't... we don't _do_ relationships, Russia. We... we're enemies, we've always been enemies, and we're always going to be enemies." Russia sighed. "Not always, Америка. It was not always this way." America averted his eyes, unwilling to look, let alone think, about the Russian's words.

Russia continued, "Do you actually turn your back to those times?" America's hands unconsciously contorted into fists. "Tell me, my little Америка," Russia asked, idly twirling his finger around the rim of the vodka bottle, "What is it that you love about me?"

"There's nothing I love about you!" spat America, feeling his cheeks redden. He didn't need to act like a weak colony at this point in time—or ever again, for that matter. "There's nothing to love about you! The past? It's all a lie, Russia! It's all a lie, and it's always been a lie! We live in the future, Russia! We've already traveled in space, dropped atomic bombs, killed millions of humans! What else do you need to know?"

Russia smirked at the American's outburst and remarked, "So you do have some thoughts... does that mean you love the role I play?" America's eyes narrowed further as he asked warily, "What do you mean?" Russia giggled and replied, "Along with being a hero... there must always be a villain, дa?" America bared his teeth into a snarl. "You were always the villain, Russia."

"You are always the villain, and you are always going to be. Nothing will... nothing will ever change, and it doesn't make me want you anymore. It never did. You... you... those days we spent in the wheat fields are gone, got it? They're done for, gone, completely kicked the bucket, dropped down the toilet."

Russia leaned in, and his smile grew even wider. America began to wonder whether the Russian had managed to drink himself into some sort of shitless state before remembering that it took at least seven bottles to get him relatively inebriated. "The great hero, Alfred fucking Jones, always ready to stand up to bullies. Always ready to be the hero and save the day, whether or not everyone else wants it or not." America gritted his teeth. "Shut the fuck up, Russia."

Russia continued, undeterred, "You like playing the hero because everyone loves the hero, and you've always wanted to be loved, дa?" His tone became casual, as if he was simply commenting on a trivial matter, as though he was questioning whether or not his clothes had been properly ironed. "Not everyone needs a hero, Америка." America snarled, "Not everyone needs a villain, either." Russia simply looked at him, the amethyst eyes growing cold.

"Oh?" Russia asked contemptuously, "And, tell me, what marks me as a villain? Is it the fact that my ambitions are more realistic, compared to yours? Is it my ability to perceive the world in a more rational manner, compared with yours?" America yelled, "You're fucking insane!" as he decided to completely shut down and ignore his conscience. Russia laughed and echoed, "Insane? Нет, Америка. I just had a harsher childhood than you did."

"Well, if you're asking for sympathy from me, then forget about it," muttered the American. "I just let you in for some drinks and company. That's all." The Russian stared at America and said softly, "The world isn't a playground, Америка. How long will it take for you to realize that?" America snapped, "I could ask you the same thing, Russia." Russia countered, "In what manner? I don't go around trying to protect every single person on this planet; since when were you proclaimed as the Messiah of this world?"

America clenched his fists and slowly whispered, "Shut up, you commie bastard." Russia smirked and coldly remarked, "How many times will it take you to realize that no matter how you say it, I will never be affected by your words?" America yelled, "That's just 'cause you have no heart!" An awkward, tense silence hung in the air as Russia froze, his amethyst eyes boring into sky blue ones.

"Who are you to say that?" asked Russia slowly, never once blinking as America slowly turned away. "You don't... you don't know anything about me, really, do you, Америка?" In response, America mumbled, "But do I need to, Russia? Or should I call you the 'Soviet Union' now? For all of... for the last forty-five years, we've been enemies. Do we really need to change this badly?"

"Then what of our future?" Russia questioned in a quiet but strong voice. "Are you willing to dissolve into another useless conflict, filled with corruption, deceit, bribery, and achieving absolutely nothing in the end?" America turned towards Russia and narrowed his eyes. "You're sounding a lot like a hero..." he quietly muttered. Russia flashed him a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"There's a fine line between a hero and a villain," Russia remarked softly. America leaned closer to the taller nation, completely ignoring the fact that he was supposed to be wary of him. "Why do you hate me?" he asked. Russia's mouths curved upwards in amusement. "I could ask you the same question, да? But... the truth is, I think you are simply feeling helpless."

"Why?" America asked. There was a moment of silence, and Russia finally answered, "Because you want to win so badly out of your own pride." America scowled and said angrily, "You know, for a moment I thought you were going to say something better than that." Russia smirked, and another silence was born. "I want to help," America suddenly, but softly said, "Everyone... including you."

"Try all you want, Америка," said Russia calmly, "but you can't be the hero with anyone, much less me. It's not as easy as you seem to think it is—you see, there are no clear boundaries. There is no white and there is no black; there are only fine shades of grey, some that can hardly be told apart from the next. Things do not always change, Америка."

America balled his hands into fists and yelled, "You don't understand!" Russia looked at him again, weariness showing in tired violet eyes. "Must I repeat myself again?" he asked softly. America ignored him and implored, "Please, Russia, try to understand! I want to help because I believe in change!" In response, Russia snorted, "Change... what do you know about it? All you know is how to meddle in others' business."

America clenched his teeth and brought his fist out onto the table. "Why won't you listen to me?" he yelled, shoulders shaking with emotion. "I... I just want to help others." Russia looked at him serenely and said, "You should know, Америка, that your help is not wanted by others." America looked at him and murmured, "No... I think they're just too afraid to ask."

It was now the Russian's turn to narrow his eyes. "Are you implying that I'm a coward?" he snarled, his eyes lit by an insane fire that burned within them. America shivered at Russia's aggressive stance, but continued to say calmly, "No... I don't think you are. We're all cowards. It just takes a lot to really ask for help." A smile slowly appeared on the America's face as he said softly, "I'll always be there to help you, Russia. I'll be your hero."

In return, Russia looked at the outstretched hand, anger welling up within him. "I have no use for a weakling like you," he said coldly, slapping away the other's hand. "Leave me alone, you capitalist pig." America looked slightly saddened and asked, "Why do you not trust me?" Russia snapped, "Because I don't need your help! Stop throwing your weight around when nobody wants it. You try to help but in the end, you just... what is the term... you just _fuck things up_!"

"I do not!" shouted America, and he pounded his fist on the kitchen table, causing his can to rattle about precariously. "I... I try to not have things like this happen, all right? But maybe it would be better if I lived in a doghouse, huh? And the rest of the world can call me out when they need me: give money to this country, help the children dying of AIDS in this country, feed the homeless in your own country—as if I'm not trying!—and then, in the end, they'll just send me back to the doghouse and I'll stay there until it's decided that I'm needed again!"

He took a deep, shuddering breath, before continuing. "Tell me, Russia, how is that thing in Afghanistan going, the war? I heard casualties are pretty high on your side. Do you ever get told to _get the fuck out of that country_, to stop the war, to just leave everyone alone until they decide that they need your money, your power, again? Do you? Really? Tell me!" he shouted, his face inches from the Russian's own.

Russia stared at him straight in the eyes and said quietly, "Do you see, Америка? We are not as different as you think we are. What about the Baltics? Do you know, they want to leave me? They have attempted to declare independence, Америка. I am trying," he smiled mirthlessly, tensely, "to hold together the tatters of the Union I formed from the dust of an empire, while you are just reaching your prime. But someday you will follow me down this road."

"Well, I'll be damned sure not to make the same mistakes," America replied, and watched as the Russian dissolved into a rather self-deprecating chuckle. "We'll see about that, even sooner than what you may have imagined," Russia giggled. A moment of silence developed. "Russia," America suddenly, yet quietly, asked, "do you... believe in the future?" Russia looked at him, violet eyes sparkling.

"What future?" he asked, his voice holding no joy. "With the way the world is going... we will have no future, Америка." America sighed, looking somewhat forlorn. "That's why," America said, "I want to be a hero." As he looked at the tall Russian, Russia noticed how his eyes seemed to fill with a new fire. "You, and others too," said America, "you should learn to have faith."

"Faith in what?" echoed Russia. "You? Pray, enlighten me, what are you going to do? Come and preach to me every day about my sins and how I could possibly fix them?" America ignored his sarcastic comments and continued, "If you learn to trust others, then you'll find that help will always be there." Russia remained silent, and America pleaded, "How long can we really continue this, Russia?"

"I wake up every day listening to my boss whine and complain about you and talk about how I'm being totally useless and all that shit," he said angrily. "I can't take this any longer. I'm ready to lose my mind, to burst my bubble, to flip my shit." Russia muttered, quietly enough so America couldn't hear him, "I have already 'flipped my shit'." To America, he asked, "Do I look like your boss? If you have such big problems, then go complain to him, not me!"

America exasperatedly asked, "What's your problem? Are you always like this?" Russia smirked and replied rather wittily, "I could ask you the same question." America growled, "Shut up. You just don't understand how fucked up our lives have become because of this." Russia tilted his head and asked, "Oh, really? If you're already on the point of giving up, then what will happen to your nation?" America remained silent.

"You can't give up," said Russia with finality. "You cannot give up now, America. We have gone far too far for that. Didn't you say earlier that together, we have created atom bombs, travelled through space, killed millions and millions of human beings? We will never stop until one of us falls, America." He turned from him, picking up his bottle and shaking it, only to realize that it was already empty. "Entertain me," he said finally. "Am I not your guest, Америка?"

"What do you want me to do?" asked America after a period of quiet blankness when all they could hear was the other breathing. He finally leaned over and opened the mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of rather cheap-looking vodka. "There's not much that we can do, sitting here, in New Orleans, you know." Russia sighed, snatching the bottle from America's hand before he could offer it.

"Let's have a night where we are not nations," he said. "Let us be like the humans, stupid and impulsive, but born with the ability to love, Америка. That will not be too difficult, will it be?" He stood and downed a fourth of the rather small bottle in one gulp; America realized at that point just how colossal Russia was. "For just one night, let us be human."

"How do you think it's going to work out?" asked America incredulously. "We have always been tied to the fates of the nations we are meant to represent. Look at what happened to Prussia, becoming East Germany," he paused, knowing how sensitive the topic was to both of them, "and then moving right back into his own brother's basement. The world's changing, Russia, and I think we'll have to change with it."

"They always talk about passion," said Russia in an almost-desperate voice, "like they know how it feels. Have they ever stood on a battlefield, surrounded by the charred corpses of their mutilated dead, knowing that their enemies will only continue coming back for more? We are nations, Америка. We can be passionate, we can feel, we can be _alive_."

"Fine," snapped America. "Now shall we start?" Russia sighed, looked down his nose at the American. "You are not doing this right. Do you remember the year of 1962, Америка? That is not the road that we want to travel." The man in question blanched, paled. "Don't talk about... that year... in that manner, Russia," he muttered. "Why?" the other responded. "Is it because you can't handle the fact that you were dominated once, that you can be dominated again?"

He took America's chin between his pointer and index fingers, and squeezed. Hard. "You are not doing this correctly, my little Америка." He planted a light but strong kiss on those warm lips, and America could feel the coldness that emanated from the chapped lips. "You're cold," he finally mumbled. Russia smiled coldly in response. "It happens, when one lives in a world like mine."

"Don't you want to change things?" he asked mockingly, and America knew that something had snapped within him, something had changed. "If you so want to, as you put it, _be my hero_, then show me that you can do that." America grinned up to him at that point: "It's a challenge, Russia." And he kissed him right back.

"You are not bad at this," commented Russia in between gasping kisses and clawing embraces. "You are one of the best that I have experienced so far, in fact, Америка. And what do you have to say about your experience with me?" America moved slightly, not quite sure what to say, taking another drink from the fourth of the beer cans that now littered his table. The second bottle had disappeared about five minutes before, and a third one had been opened up some time ago (and was now halfway empty).

He sighed and twisted about contentedly. "We can just be strangers, can't we?" he muttered, before adopting a rather uncharacteristic and depraved-looking smirk. "We're strangers for this one night, got it?" Russia grunted; he was pushed up against the kitchen wall of America's own shotgun home. "I don't think you know me," he whispered, "but if you did, you'd know that cheap beer and hot Russians make my clothes fall off."

* * *

America slowly blinked open his eyes, groaning. Sunlight was streaming from the single window and onto the bed. _Fuck_, thought America, _it's morning_. For some strange reason, his entire body hurt. Before the American could possibly wonder what happen, faint memories of the previous night began coming back to him in a barrage of angry words and movements.

Russia coming over... the argument... the bedroom. America let out another groan, and realized, to his horror, that the other side of the bed was empty, free of any Russians or scarves. "What the...?" muttered America as he reached for his glasses, and realized that not only had the Russian disappeared, but he had also made the other side of the bed up neatly.

"Russia?" called out America, but there was no answer. _Where is that commie bastard_? he wondered as he slowly, yet painfully, rose. He hastily flung a shirt around his shoulders, and slowly walked out of the bedroom. "Russia? Where are you?" he called again. Once again, there was no answer.

"Damn it, this isn't funny, Russia," he mumbled. He wandered into the kitchen and looked around. Everything was still there, exactly as he had left it—the beer cans, the spaghetti—but he noticed something glinting on the table. He walked over to it, and saw some brass war-badges and awards (he recognized one as a , along with a ripped and rather messy-looking strip of paper.

He slowly took the piece of paper in his hand. The paper had a hastily scrawled note that began in Russian:

_Герои могут change people, but злодей also necessary. спасибо вас за hospitality. РОССИЯ._

He read it in silence, and couldn't help but chuckle in the end. The note appeared to have been done very quickly, and Russia had moved from Cyrillic to broken English and back to Russian at the end. "What a moron," he snorted. "And they call me an idiot."

He looked back at the table and fingered the badges. They had clearly popped off of Russia's army overcoat while they were doing _whatever-they-had-done_ the night before. A wistful look crept onto his face as he glanced out of the window, and he mumbled, "You're always going to be my villain, Russia. But I can be your hero."

He turned away from the window and began to scrub at the grimy, pasta-sauce-covered dishes sitting in the kitchen sink. He would return to DC in the fall.

_**

* * *

**_

Родник

_ = Rodnik, a type of Russian vodka  
__**Дa**__ = Russian word for "yes"  
__**Америка**__ = Russian word for "America"  
__**Нет**__ = Russian word for "no"  
__**1962**__ = the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis  
__**Герои могут change people**__ = "Heroes can change people"  
__**but злодей also necessary**__ = "but villain also necessary"  
__**спасибо**__**вас**__**за**__** hospitality**__ = "thank you for hospitality"__  
__**РОССИЯ**__ = Russian word for "RUSSIA"_

_Thanks for reading, please review._


End file.
